


World War Three Aftermath

by Marmosette



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M, World War Three
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-17
Updated: 2012-03-17
Packaged: 2017-11-02 01:58:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/363746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marmosette/pseuds/Marmosette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone on Tumblr wanted to see Greg and Mycroft after Mycroft had just averted WWIII, say. You didn't think he'd be impressed or anything, did you? Mycroft, I mean? Please.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World War Three Aftermath

“Fucking hell, Mycroft.”

Greg fell back onto his chair. Mycroft only glanced up at him, and went on writing, his fountain pen gliding across the paper as he underlined something. 

“How fine did you cut that?”

“Please think about the possible answers to that question, Gregory,” Mycroft said in his absent-minded voice, calm and cool and utterly unmoved.

“That close?”

Mycroft glanced up at him, but went on writing. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I don’t want to know. Do you have to tell someone? I mean, should I leave so you can, I dunno, ring the Prime Minister or something?”

“No need. That will all...have been taken care of.” Mycroft looked back over the papers in front of him, flipping pages, arranging them neatly, and closing the file. He recapped his pen and tucked it back into his jacket. 

“So that’s it? You’re, what, done for the day?” Greg laughed in disbelief, watching the other man’s calm. It made his brain itch; he knew Mycroft felt things. Of course he did. And he also understood that Mycroft usually had to hide his feelings, in the course of his job. His many jobs. His career. His _life._ No, there was no way to summarise what Mycroft did or was. But no one should be able to ride the missile right up to the border like that, then stare down his enemy, and then saunter away as if he’d done nothing more exciting than crossing a street.

“I doubt it,” Mycroft admitted. “There will be debriefings at all levels on through the night. But all of that will be far less interesting to watch.” He leaned forward and switched off his desk lamp, then set his fingertips together and watched Greg over the top. “You understand that officially, you should be debriefed as well.”

Greg blinked, recoiling in surprise. “Me? Why? Oh, just for sitting here?”

“Obviously you’ve overheard enough to have been concerned.”

“Well, yes, but that’s because... I mean, if we hadn’t had lunch when we did...”

“Late,” Mycroft reminded him. “Because of the body in the dustbin.”

“I was there,” Greg reminded him, already feeling defensive. 

“And if you hadn’t been late, I wouldn’t have been here to take the call,” Mycroft went on, watching him carefully.

Greg shifted, then raised his chin defiantly. “There is no way you’re ever going to prove that Jerry Osborn was the pawn of some North Korean -”

“I don’t need to prove it,” Mycroft interrupted. “You already understand the implications.”

“Yeah,” Greg said slowly, feeling his way. “So, what, you’ve got to take me somewhere and interview me for the record? Make sure that I don’t know any more than I’m supposed to?”

Mycroft laughed, surprising Greg. “Good Lord, no. The last thing we need is more evidence being generated that any of this ever happened.”

“So this is just the usual hush-up - ‘you never saw me, I was never here,’ yeah?”

“Officially, yes.”

The repetition registered, and Greg waited for a moment before prompting, “...But?”

“But. As you say. I am tired, and I’ve just stopped three black-market warheads from being used in an international game of Russian roulette. I require your word that you will never, ever, under any circumstances, mention anything to do with this outside of this office.”

Greg nodded slowly, mentally rewinding Mycroft’s words and running them through again, this time with a lot of pausing and refocusing. “Never, under any circumstances. Outside this office.”

“Yes.”

“But it’s okay in this office.”

Mycroft tipped his head, seeing what Greg was thinking even as Greg worked it out.

“So you think I’m likely to mention it. Under some circumstances. But not ones that occur in this office, where it would be okay.” Mycroft opened his mouth to argue, but it was already too late, and Greg was grinning. “You really think so? You _really_ think that’s how I work? That I’d be thinking of this, maybe, later on? Tonight, say? Maybe at home?”

“It’s hardly likely you’ll have forgotten it so easily,” Mycroft protested, feeling the need to at least make a gesture in the direction of defense.

“Just because I haven’t forgotten something doesn’t mean I’ll be actively... _remembering_ it.”

“Can you be certain?”

“Have you ever heard me shout something indiscreet? Really?”

“You have a tendency to...shout. I may not always be quite so aware of what you are actually shouting.”

“Well all right then,” Greg said quickly, seizing the opening. “Even you don’t know what I shout. There you are - that’s how discreet I am.”

Mycroft’s mouth worked silently for a moment, undecided between amusement, disbelief, and outright denial. “I think I’m flattered and insulted in equal measure.”

“Normal Friday night, then,” Greg said smoothly getting to his feet. “You coming?”


End file.
